Trust Issues
by Wayfaring Strangers
Summary: People say that the trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool. He trusted too little. She trusted too much. Turns out, both of them were doing the wrong thing. Bucky/OC, Movieverse
1. Chapter 1

**Story:** **Trust Issues**

**Pairing(s): Bucky/OC **

**Rating: T-M**

**Summary: ****People say that the trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool. He trusted too little. She trusted too much. Turns out, both of them were doing the wrong thing.**

* * *

Chapter 1

_The woods are lovely; dark and deep._

* * *

It did not surprise Camille that the man in the forest had shot her. What had actually surprised her was that he had shot her on accident.

She had been flying through the sparse excuse for a forest that covered about thirty percent of S.H.I.E.L.D's Southwestern headquarters, sprinting at top speed, her Nike-clad feet pounding against the red-dirt covered desert ground. She had known there was a low plateau about thirty miles from the main compound where she had begun. She had taken a different route for her nightly run; intending to cut through the pitiful vegetation and scale a forty foot high wall of rock. All to get to the top of that dammed plateau.

They'd told her that the view was wonderful. Especially at night.

In her opinion, she was doing great. The run was hardly a challenge, and she was making good time, barely panting nor breaking a sweat. The stars were winking above her, and the crisp night air that was a common factor in the arid Arizona desert was extremely refreshing. She felt peaceful and was in relatively good spirits. That was until the gunshot rang out. Camille had estimated it to come from about 20 feet behind her.

"Stop running! Now! I don't want to hurt you, but I will if I have to." The typical words of a S.H.I.E.L.D guard's arrest script rang out in a clear, masculine voice.

Skidding to a stop in the red dirt and whipping herself around to face her assailant, she suddenly became aware of a searing pain in her upper shoulder. In spite of herself, she let out a gasp. She put the tips of her fingers to her shoulder and drew them away, slick with blood. It was a simple flesh wound, barely even grazing her body at all.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Camille murmured, wiping the dark liquid on her leggings. She heard dirt and fine gravel crunching under the guard's combat boots as he ungracefully made his way towards her, gun pointed towards her and all. She let him come. Arms crossed and eyebrows raised in anticipation for his predictably weak verbal assault. He was presumably a lower level security guard at best, and would most likely give her some form of speech in order to assert his nonexistent authority. Camille sighed when she saw his face. By guard standards, he was scrawny. Pale. Mousy hair even under the moonlight; probably couldn't even grow a full beard even as a young man. Absolutely pathetic.

"Listen, woman," he began, not even looking her in the eye, "You have no idea what you're in for. You are on governme—"

"Please tell me you're delusional." She spat, ignoring the pain that had dulled to an annoying throb in her shoulder.

The guard looked up at her. His watery pale eyes met her gray ones. She raised her slim, dark eyebrows even higher.

"Do you know who I am?" she asked.

"A-Agent Fremont, m-my apologies, I'm sorry, I-I-I didn't mean to, I just…" he stammered, throwing his gun down to the ground. "I just didn't realize it was you, that's all. Dressed in dark colors and running in the middle of the night, someone would have thought you were trying to get shot. We need to get you to a medic immediately."

"I'm wearing a S.H.I.E.L.D windbreaker," she growled. "I run _every_ _fucking night_, and for the love of God, this facility is surrounded by a thirty foot high electric fence. Also, the only other person in this entire facility who can run as fast as I can is my brother, and so help me God, I have a mutation that gives me _healing abilities_, so, no I do not need to _get to a medic_ immediately. So, pray tell, were you trying to kill me on purpose? Or were you just born stupid?" Her good spirits were ruined. Her shoulder hurt, and frankly, she was slightly tired.

"N-No ma'am, I'm simply try—" he stammered again, slightly backing away from the angry young woman.

"Oh, you're simple?" Camille hissed furiously, "That might be the only correct thing you've said or done tonight. Give me your name, guard. I'm talking to the Head of Security first thing tomorrow." And with that, she turned on her heel and strode past the incompetent guard, heading back to where she had come from.

The guard called after her, still stuttering, "F-Flowers, ma'am! Stanley Flowers, and-and hey! The Head's your brother, isn't he?"

Camille called back in a sing-song voice as she continued to strut back to the main compound. "He sure is! And if you ask me, I'm the nicer one out of the two of us."

…

* * *

Around forty-five minutes later, Camille had showered and was back in her room. The S.H.I.E.L.D Southwest compound was in a remote area of the Mojave, and all of the employees had their own quarters or barracks in the huge, sprawling campus. She was standing in her private, fluorescent lit bathroom clad in a pair of black boxer shorts printed with red lobsters, (a gag gift from her older brother Nik for her 22nd birthday,) and a gray camisole. Her long, dark hair was still damp from her shower and was piled on top of her head in a scraggly bun, but most importantly the ragged wound on her shoulder was clean and devoid of any dried blood. The pain was no longer an issue, as it had faded to a burning throb during her confrontation with Flowers, but the wound was still open and ragged. Frowning, she pressed her forefinger into the irritated skin at the tip of the liaison and pressed firmly while trailing her finger to the end of the wound. Her fingertip burned white-hot, and the pain was intense, as if a thousand tiny needles were sewing her cells back together. When she removed her finger, the skin was unmarked. Clean. No pain or trace of the flesh wound remained. After appraising her handiwork, Camille brushed her teeth in lukewarm water and collapsed into her too-soft bed. Within moments, she was asleep.

…

* * *

The next morning, Camille awoke to two things. The desert sun sneaking through the slits in the blinds that covered her windows and practically burning holes through her eyelids accompanied by her brother's pinched voice bleating through the intercom on her bedside table.

"Morning Cam-Cam!" his fake-cheerful voice seemed loud enough to break the plastic box, "There's going to be a very special person here to see the two of us today in a few hours, so if you could get your ass out of bed at some point, that would be _wonderful._"

She almost smashed the box, but instead held down the button that would allow her to reply.

"Nik?" she asked

"_What?" _he replied. She could almost picture his scowl.

She pressed the button again.

"Shut up."

"Camille. I'm serious. It's Alexander Pierce. Room CA4. He wants us both there."

Groaning, the brunette forced herself into an upright position. She jabbed the button on the intercom again,

"Give me an hour."

…

* * *

An hour and a half later, Camille had showered, dressed in a charcoal gray skirt and crisp white shirt, headed down to one of Southwest's many conference rooms, and was drowning her fifth cup of coffee, (black, four sugars,) across from her brother Nik, and Satan himself.

Gulping down the steaming hot liquid was all she could do from preventing herself from hurling the ceramic cup into Alexander Pierce's elderly face. Nik, on the other hand was next to her in of the leather chairs that surrounded the huge, polished mahogany table and had rested his elbows on the armrests of the chairs and sat with his fingertips pressed together and a placid expression on his face.

"So," Nik began, always cool as a cucumber, "What you're asking my lovely sister and I to do is to turn our backs on the organization that essentially raised us, to betray said organization and also to aid another organization that only exists to destroy the organization that you are asking us to betray."

Camille smirked behind the rim of her mug. Nik always had a way of speaking that made her think of circles and riddles involving chickens and eggs. He was a smart ass, but he was a brilliant, _psychic_ smart ass.

"It's what your parents wanted. It's even written in their wills." Pierce stated, with a smug look on his face.

Camille set down her coffee mug firmly. "Our parents have been dead for ten years. If they had written it in their wills, why didn't you come to us when we were sixteen? Or eighteen? We have worked for S.H.I.E.L.D our entire lives. Why are you expecting us to change now?"

"Your parents were loyal to HYDRA, my dear. S.H.I.E.L.D killed your little brother didn't they? Caspian was his name, no? How very unfortunate. What a waste. He was only twelve at the time too, wasn't he?"

"Don't talk about him." Nik said. There was a hard edge to his voice and a cold look in his gray eyes that even Camille rarely saw. "We don't talk about him."

"Castellan, son, be reasonable. It's been years. Oh wait; you go by Nik, don't you? After Nikolai, your middle name. Why wouldn't you be proud of your first name? You and your grandfather shared a name. Castellan was a great man. Did many wonderful things for HYDRA. Just like you will."

Pierce paused to take a sip of coffee from the mug in front of him. Camille crossed her fingers under the table and hoped that it was poisoned. Pierce's proposition was ridiculous, but on the other hand, he was speaking the truth. Camille and Nik's parents were both extremely prominent figures in the HYDRA organization. Nik and Camille had known since they were children that their mommy and daddy were not the good guys. And that S.H.I.E.L.D would be compromised one day. But Camille never thought it would be in her lifetime.

"Nik. You see the future. You know that this is the right choice." Pierce said, fixing his gaze on Camille's brother.

"I can't see shit. It's all black." Nik said as he crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his chair.

"Listen to me, both of you. Camille. Nik. You are two very powerful mutants. You were both a part of the Weapon X project. Those powers run in your family. You would be a huge asset in DC working for HYDRA. We need your powers. But instead, you choose to waste your talents here, in S.H.I.E.L.D's weakest division."

"There's a flaw in your plan, Pierce." Camille said, "Nick Fury."

"Camille, sweetheart. Nick Fury is dead." Alexander Pierce retorted smugly. "As of this morning, Nick Fury is dead."

Camille fixed her gaze on the landscape outside the large window that took up the conference room's entire back wall. Nick Fury. Dead. She swallowed hard,

"Th-There's no way," she stammered before collecting herself, "There's _no_ way. You're lying. There is _no way_ that you're right."

"Cam, no. He's right. I saw it. It looks like HYDRA is the winning side." Her brother muttered, barely audible.

* * *

**A/N: Hello, welcome. So that was a preview to my new story. This is going to be set in the CA Movieverse, and I really hope you all manage to enjoy it. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Story: Trust Issues**

**Pairing: Bucky/OC**

**Rating: T-M**

**Summary: ****People say that the trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool. He trusted too little. She trusted too much. Turns out, both of them were doing the wrong thing.**

* * *

Chapter 2

_You adapt to survive here. That's how it works; you change yourself to fit the whims of other people._

* * *

Camille's phone would _not_ stop ringing. She had glanced at the LCD screen each time it had gone off, but there was no caller ID, nothing.

Washington DC was huge. When she had first arrived from Arizona with Nik, around a day ago, she had been curious as to how HYDRA had been operating under the entire U.S Government's noses, but now that she had seen DC, she finally understood. Their headquarters managed to masquerade as a large, closed down, seventy-story Bank of America office, just an everyday building in the big city that would be overlooked by nearly everyone. She had been pacing her new quarters at HYDRA Headquarters, and was beginning to think that Alexander Pierce was correct. She belonged here. She would be better off here. The room was huge. Twenty-third floor. Luxurious, even. What, with floor to ceiling windows that dimmed to an opaque black at the touch of a button, and a huge king sized bed with crisp white sheets, burgundy plush carpets, a walk-in closet, oak desk _and_ a fully functioning plasma TV? There wasn't much to complain about. The only real downside was that she had to share a bathroom with the only other person with a room on her floor. Who apparently, was a total recluse, as she had yet to meet them. She didn't mind. She liked privacy. But, as far as Camille was concerned, the bathroom was hers. She was reluctant to admit it, but after a day, it honestly wasn't _bad_ at HYDRA. Besides the fact that she didn't believe a single word that had come out of the mouths of any of the five people she had met so far, she was moderately comfortable.

Except for the fact that her goddamn phone kept ringing.

However, this was the seventh time. She had heard it ringing while she was in the shower, causing her to end it abruptly, and her patience was starting to wear thin. Jabbing the, "Answer," button with a wet finger, Camille laid it flat on the marble countertop in the, "shared," bathroom and hit speaker.

"Fremont," she answered as she began to run a brush through her damp hair.

"_Agent Fremont. How considerate of you to answer your phone._" The caller—young, female from the sound of her voice, replied in Bulgarian—Camille's native tongue.

Camille's eyes widened. She gently set the brush down and turned off speakerphone. Slamming her phone to her ear, she replied harshly. "_In English." _Her eyes frantically searched the bathroom, searching for bugs, wires, microphones—anything. She found nothing. She got on her hands and knees and opened the cabinets under the sink with no results. Same with inside the linen closet. The bathroom appeared to be bug free.

"How do you like DC?" the speaker asked, now in husky, unaccented English.

"Who the fuck is this?" Camille snarled, tightening her grip around the cell phone.

The line went dead. The call was probably a way of tracking her. Even though she knew it would probably be too late, Camille threw the phone to the black marble floor where the glass screen shattered and the sleek chrome backing piece popped off completely. Snatching up the SIM card, she smashed it in her fist, rendering it to nothing but a few shards of plastic. Kneeling down and picking up as many pieces of broken glass as she could, slicing her hand in the process, Camille checked the mirror to make sure that the towel she had hurriedly wrapped around her body after her shower was secure. When she was sure that it was, she pulled open the door leading into the hallway.

And walked straight into someone's naked chest.

…

* * *

He wanted to take a goddamn shower. He had just killed someone, been interrogated for two days straight afterwards, managed to keep a lid on his temper, and all he wanted to do was to take a shower.

The Winter Soldier had returned from an awful face-to-face interrogation with Alexander Pierce, and was absolutely irritated. After the old fart had made sure that the soldier did in fact not know _anything_ about his past, other than the fact that his name was James, and _no_, nothing was triggered by killing that man with the eye patch, Pierce had managed to slip in the fact that the Winter Soldier had a new floor-mate.

As in HYDRA had a new member and they were living on his floor?

Absolutely wonderful.

As he sulked back to his room, head pounding, mouth dry, he noticed that the only other room on the twenty-third floor's door had been left slightly ajar. His scowl deepened and he walked further down the hall and into his own dark room, firmly closing the door behind him.

He'd start with the knife in his boot first, he supposed. He tossed the sheathed knife onto his bed. It was followed with two guns, three grenades (which he set down gently), seventy-five extra bullets that were fastened to a belt, four other concealed knives, and one taser.

Once his weapons were removed, the next step was his heavy, dark shirt and jacket. His boots were kicked off the second he had stepped through the door, and his mask was off the second he had arrived back at HYDRA Headquarters.

And now for that shower he had been craving. He walked back up the hall and was about to turn the knob on the bathroom door when it flew open and a petite, dark haired woman clad in nothing but a damp towel walked straight into his chest.

Judging on the few seconds it had taken her to take a step back, the soldier could tell that she had expected him to move. As she moved back, he took the opportunity to take in her appearance.

And goddamn, she was pretty. Even worse. Wavy dark hair, huge gray eyes fixed on his left arm, full lips, olive skin sparsely dotted with moles and freckles, and an aggressive tilt to her chin. She appeared to be clutching something in her right hand, and blood was running down her forearm.

He said something real intelligent like,

"Your hand is bleeding."

"Yeah," she rasped, looking him dead in the eyes, "No shit."

* * *

**A/N: ok, yay chapter 2 is done, thank you based god. I know it's slow moving right now, but Camille and Nik's past is gonna be revealed soon-ish, so yay. All in good time, heh. and there was a little Bucky in this chapter, and him and Camille will for sure be interacting more in the future. Also, REVIEWS WOULD BE TOTALLY APPRECIATED! and thanks for all the favorites/follows that I've gotten so far. that's all really cool.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Story: Trust Issues**

**Pairing: Bucky/OC**

**Rating: T-M**

**Summary: ****People say that the trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool. He trusted too little. She trusted too much. Turns out, both of them were doing the wrong thing.**

* * *

Chapter 3

_You are now invited to the other side of sanity._

* * *

In the twenty-four hours that he had known his new floor-mate, the Winter Soldier had only learned two, maybe three things about her.

Firstly, her name was Camille Fremont, and _no_, she had explained, she was _not_ French, but instead, her French-Canadian father and Bulgarian mother were extremely pretentious and gave all of their children equally pretentious names.

He had replied that his name was James, he didn't know his last name, and that he wasn't French either. And then she had stared at him as if he had grown a third head, or maybe- another metal limb. This had led him to think that the new recruit either had no sense of humor- because she didn't look like the stupid type- or that she just didn't expect a brooding man with a metal arm could even make a joke. And then she had muttered something about not getting her blood all over the carpet and disappeared back into her room down the hall.

And secondly, the woman did _not_ sleep.

It was later that night. James had finally showered and after flipping channels on his TV, decided that he was going to attempt to sleep. He rarely got the chance to sleep, and when he did, he either woke up in a cold sweat after a few hours or didn't sleep at all, and just stared at the ceiling in his room the whole time. But every one of his doctors had assured him that he was _fine_, and this was _normal_ behavior, and had kept him pumped up by injecting caffeine into his veins.

But this was a good night. He was actually feeling _tired_, and thought that maybe, for once, he'd get more than five hours of rest.

Clearly, he was wrong.

Camille had stopped blaring her TV at 1 A.M, and had switched to pacing instead. In her room, down the hallway, and back into her room. He had even heard her _get inside the elevator and leave their floor_ at some point—only to come back around 3 minutes later and resume her inane pacing regimen. The Winter Soldier looked over at his bedside table, and glowing numbers on the alarm clock that perched there confirmed that it was four twenty-three in the morning.

Her footsteps grew louder for the millionth time.

He'd had enough. Tossing back the sheets, he walked to the door and slipped out quietly into the hallway.

…

* * *

Camille was losing it, to say the least.

Ever since she had seen her floor-mate's face, she had been losing it.

She knew who he was; she knew _everything_ there was to know. She had pored over his file endlessly when she first joined S.H.I.E.L.D. His was one of the most interesting files they had kept on copy at Southwest, so she had to amuse herself somehow, right?

Wrong. Every time she reminded herself of who was living a door down from her, she thought about S.H.I.E.L.D, and she thought about how all of the people she had worked with for the past five years would most likely be dead in a matter of weeks. Every time she closed her eyes to try to sleep, she saw another face. First, the secretary who worked in the intelligence division, then the scrawny guard who had shot her, then the new intern in the science division that she had accidentally shoulder-checked in the hallway. And then another face, and another, and another, until finally, she gave up trying to sleep all together.

And that was _before _she started wracking her brain, trying to remember every detail of James Buchanan Barnes/Bucky for short/the Winter Soldier/ whatever his fucking name was' file. That was _before_ her conscious mind reminded her that after WWII, he was brainwashed into becoming a Soviet spy, that he was a cold blooded killer, and that he was _dangerous_.

And that she had learned about him in _her high school history class_, for Christ's sake. Of course, they had never mentioned what happened after WWII.

And that he was living at the end of the hall. And that he had joked with her earlier that day like it was nothing. And that he had absolutely no idea regarding who he was- only what he was capable of.

It was four in the morning. She had been pacing around the entire twenty-third floor, and flinching at the sound of any noise. She had even gotten in the elevator and tried to find Nik, but when she realized that she had absolutely no idea what floor he was on, she wound up slamming her fist into one of the elevator's metal walls, denting it severely. _Whoops_. She'd thought as she resumed her pacing regimen. _Hope no one notices that later in the morning_.

She'd just made another lap around her room and was beginning to walk down the hallway again, when she felt the hairs rise up on the back of her neck and saw the faintest gleam of metal out of the corner of her eye. Freezing dead in her tracks, she squinted slightly, and there he was, maybe seven feet in front of her.

Shirtless, hair in disarray, arms crossed and clad in black boxer shorts (she'd later swear on her mother's grave that they were designer,) stood the Winter Soldier himself.

"Busted," he said.

"Are you going to kill me?" she asked, slightly breathlessly. Heart pounding, eyes wild. And then she regretted it. It was probably not the best idea to be so straightforward in situations such as these. Everyone she knew could probably have come up with some form of snarky one-liner, but no. Not Camille.

"What?" he asked with confusion evident in his voice, "No, actually. I wasn't planning on it. Why would I do that?"

"Because you're a killer," she said, still rooted to the spot, "You kill people."

"And you don't?" James/Bucky/Soviet Evil inquired again, "I'd find that hard to believe." He paused, and she could feel the prickle of his gaze again, probably looking her up and down. "Although, you _are_ kind of small. That's a liability, you know."

"It's not a fucking liability; I could do way more dama-," she cut herself off, "That's beside the point."

"I'm not going to kill you." He said, and Camille could hear the smirk in his voice, "We're on the same side here. If you haven't noticed, we kill the same people, sweetheart."

"Do _not_ call me—" she started.

James Buchanan Barnes interrupted her. "You need to sleep. Humans need sleep."

"Oh, I'm not anywhere near human, soldier." Camille said, simultaneously regaining the ability to move. And with that, she turned on her heel and strode back towards her room.

"Sleep tight, sweetheart." He called after her.

When she reached her door, she used her left hand to turn the knob, and her right hand to flip Bucky the bird.

…

* * *

The _problem_ with Camille, the Winter Soldier had decided as he watched the moody female slink back to her room, was the fact that her level of unfriendliness had dictated him to be the person on the less-hostile side of the situation, and he was absolutely and completely unsure of how to handle it. For example, instead of getting angry when she'd made an obscene gesture towards him, he merely let out a low chuckle and went back to his room to resume staring at the ceiling. _She'll be a fun one_, he thought. Lots of buttons to push. _And hell, _he thought, _she'd be way prettier if she removed the stick from her ass._

…

* * *

Camille sighed as she sank down into her bed. She was exhausted and she prayed to Zeus or Allah or whatever metaphysical god that was listening to her that Bucky was being honest, and would _not_ murder her in her sleep. The fact that they were on the same side was moderately frightening, but he was strangely charming for such a lethal person, and if he kept walking around half naked, he certainly would not be hearing any complaints from her.

She groaned. Her head hurt and she _really_ needed to talk to her brother.

* * *

**A/N: woooo. chapter 3 y'all. I'm sorry it's so slow moving, but I promise there's gonna be some actual plot development at some point. Also, thanks for the faves/follows and reviews. Have I mentioned that I love reviews? they're like my crack. I love knowing what y'all are thinking.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Title: Trust Issues**

**Pairing: Bucky/OC**

**Rating: T-M**

**Summary: ****People say that the trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool. He trusted too little. She trusted too much. Turns out, both of them were doing the wrong thing.**

* * *

Chapter 4

_I just want to break you down so badly, in the worst way._

* * *

"Hey," Camille said the next morning, as she sunk into a leather arm chair across from a middle-aged blond haired man in a charcoal gray suit who had been languidly drinking coffee and reading the morning paper in the building lobby prior to her arrival. "I was wondering if you could help me with something." She attempted her best pageant-girl smile afterwards, but it felt more like a grimace instead.

The man looked up at her with a bemused expression in his green eyes. He set the paper down. The front page story said something about the director of S.H.I.E.L.D's death still being a mystery. Oh, the irony. Camille then noticed the full gun holster at the blond man's hip and glared daggers at it.

"I don't see why not," he said after taking a long drink of his coffee, "anything for a young woman in need."

Camille frowned. "Anyway… I was wondering if you had any idea where I could figure out who's living on each floor? Like if there was a list of that sort of thing? I'm new here," she added sweetly.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, "You'll have to go look for Jackson. He's on the 9th floor. Since there aren't that many of us in this building, he takes care of that kind of thing. But hey, let me warn you, because you seem like a nice one. If you're looking for where the Winter Soldier lives, it's a bad idea."

"Oh no," Camille said, "Not him. I'm looking for someone else, actually…" she trailed off. "Thanks though. I appreciate it."

As Camille walked away, the blond man opened his phone and quickly dialed.

"Pierce," the speaker answered.

"She knows." The man said, and hung up.

…

* * *

It turns out that Jackson was actually Adrian Jackson, a very tall and flamboyant man who had answered the door wearing a cashmere sweater, khaki pants, expensive shoes and a scary grin.

"Come in, come _in_!" he gushed, "I got a call from Nicholls, who you were just talking to, by the way—anyway, he said you'd be here in a few seconds, and I am just so _thrilled _to meet you!"

"Um, thank you?" Camille said, as she stepped inside of Jackson's immaculate room that was decorated with a few dozen deadly weapons hung on the walls, and a few paintings, which she presumed to be the originals. "I'm Ca—"

"Camille! You're Camille Fremont! I know!" he said excitedly. "Now what can I do for you, honey?"

"I was wondering if you might know where I can find my brother, Nik." She said, leaning casually against a desk that was home to an impressive array of technology.

"Does he live in this building?" Jackson asked, as he sat down in the chair in front of the high-tech computer and began typing furiously.

"Yes," Camille said. "He came here with me."

"Full name, please?" he asked in a lighthearted tone.

"Castellan Nikolai Fremont."

"Are you sure?" Jackson asked after entering Nik's full name into the computer.

"I'm pretty sure. He's my brother after all."

"Because there's no one in the building with that name…" Jackson trailed off.

"Try Nick Freemont." Camille said, giving the name of Nik's weak alias, ignoring the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, "N-i-c-k, and Freemont with two e's."

"There's nothing, honey. Not a single record of a single person ever living in this building with that name, or any variation of it for that matter."

"No. No way. That's impossible, he came here _with_ me, I-I remember, we arrived here together and then Pierce showed him his room and some blond lady showed me mine. He has to be here, there's no way he's not," her voice rose a few decibels, "Please try again, Jackson. He has to be here."

He tried again, to no avail.

"I'm sorry, Camille. You could go looking yourself. He might've just not been registered."

Her face was tight, pale. "Yeah. I can. I will"

Jackson crossed the room in a few long legged strides and pulled a glock off of his wall of weapons from between a crossbow and what looked like a flamethrower.

"Take this," he said.

He tossed it to Camille who caught it effortlessly. A thick bracelet that appeared to be lined with several dozen bullets came next. Camille received it and discovered that it was meant for someone with thicker wrists than she, and would only fit around her upper arm. Whatever. She'd pull a Tim Gunn and make it work.

"Listen, Camille," he addressed her puzzled look, "These people are dangerous. It's better to be safe than sorry in these situations."

She nodded, and after promising to visit him again, stepped out into the eerily silent hallway.

…

* * *

Once back in her room, Camille stripped out of her black stockings, black suede skirt and crisp white button down and traded those articles of clothing in favor for tight black pants, thick socks, combat boots an olive green tank top, and black leather jacket. She stuck the glock in between her belt and her pants, fastened the bullets around her upper arm, and pulled her coffee-colored hair into a sloppy bun.

She stepped out into the hallway and walked with purpose towards the elevator doors. She jabbed the down button and waited, tapping her foot impatiently. The doors opened with a ding and she stepped inside. Pressing the button that would take her to the ground floor, Camille felt the familiar tug in her stomach that signified that the elevator was moving. She waited.

At the twenty-second and twenty-first floors, a man dressed in a black shirt, bulletproof vest and black cargos tucked into black combat boots had stepped in.

"Nice day," one of them said.

"Mm-hmm." The other replied.

At the seventh floor, three more men dressed identically to the first two stepped in.

"After all this is over, do you guys want to meet at that Gyros shop down the street for lunch?" asked the man who had first spoken.

"No," said one of them, "I hate Mediterranean food."

The men stayed silent until the door opened on the third floor which appeared to be an old abandoned information center or customer service desk with a healthy half an inch of dust on every surface. Camille was beginning to sweat, so she left the elevator at what she hoped was a casual speed in hopes that she could just avoid them and take the stairs.

They followed her. All five of them. Her pace slowed to a halt and she turned around to face them. They were in a line behind her, and the middle one was tossing a pair of electric handcuffs designed to shock the wearer unconscious back and forth from each hand.

The man on the far right made a slight movement accompanied by the sound of a gun firing, and Camille dove behind the large desk that dominated the middle of the room.

Another shot followed, and Camille felt a stab in her gut from her nerves. Not, as she had originally imagined, a bullet.

She surfaced from behind the information center long enough to fire.

The three rounds polluted the air with dust, making it near impossible to see. She heard coughing and curses, and found her own eyes watering.

"Cheap shots, huh?" one of them called from across the room. "I can play that."

Back behind the desk, Camille whirled on her knees, and found one of the men standing behind her. He grabbed her wrists immediately and pulled her closer to him. Rearing her head back, she slammed it into the man's with such force that she felt dizzy. The man fell to the ground, unconscious.

Darting out from behind the desk, she felt the first punch clip her on the jaw. _Fuck, _she thought. She noticed too late that it was a feint though, when the second hit landed on her stomach and knocked the wind out of her.

She staggered back a few feet until her back made contact with the wall. It was mild discomfort at best. Camille was a veteran to getting the wind knocked out of her. He came at her again, this time gripping her hair and slamming her head back into the drywall. Gasping as he released her, she hit her assailant with an elbow to the face and a roundhouse kick to the ribs and as he was staggering back, she grabbed the back of his neck and used it as leverage in order to smash her knee in his face. Shoving him aside, she took in her surroundings.

Dust was still floating in the air, and the remaining three men, including the staggering one who was bleeding profusely from his nose, thanks to her knee had all long stopped shooting at her. They surrounded her in a circle with her back to the wall.

"Dammit," she panted as she held the gun out in front of her, aimed at the men in front of her.

"Oh Camille. Drop the gun, please."

In all the commotion, Camille hadn't heard the elevator doors open.

Alexander Pierce stepped into her line of vision, and the men who were surrounding her immediately drew their handguns once again and pointed them at her.

"Tell me what's going on." She said, "Now."

"Drop the gun, please." He insisted.

"Tell me what is going _on_."

"Drop the gun, or they shoot."

"Tell me. Now. Where the hell is my brother. What the fu—"

She was interrupted by one of the men firing their gun. It would've hit her face if she had not moved at the last second, but instead the bullet was embedded in the drywall. The burning-hair stench of gunpowder filled her nostrils.

"Fine." She hissed, and allowed the firearm to clatter to the ground, putting her hands on her head.

"Now isn't that better?" Pierce asked.

Before Camille could answer, she felt the sharp stab of a syringe into her neck, and the world went black.

…

* * *

Camille woke up in a black walled room with greenish fluorescent lighting. It was small, only containing a large operating system that displayed several screens that had all sorts of medical lingo and imagery on them, which she could not understand, two metal tables with restraining bands, one of which she was laying atop of, restrained by metal bands across her ankles, hips, and shoulders and hooked up to an IV. Her head felt fuzzy, her body ached, and she wasn't quite sure what she was doing there.

As she peered around the room testing the limits of the restraining bands, she noticed one more object- a scary looking metal device. She had no idea what it was, but the thing looked like it had space for a human head to be inserted in it. She shuddered at the thought.

"Owwww." She groaned, her raspy voice sounding like it came from far away. "Am I in hell?" she questioned aloud to no one in particular.

"Not quite." Someone answered back from behind her. A white coated man came to stand in front of her. Two more walked through the room's open door. She struggled to remember the name for men who wore white coats like that. "You're safe now."

"Why am I here?" she asked, confused. Her head throbbed. There was a crash, and a bloodcurdling, guttural, and undoubtedly male scream from the distance.

And then suddenly, like someone had turned on the faucet, memories began to rush into Camille's head.

She sat up abruptly, her sheer strength tearing through the steel bands around her body. Camille ripped out her IV which caused one of the monitors to beep loudly, and lunged forward; grabbing the doctor (she remembered what men in white coats were called now. She also remembered that she hated them) by his throat, and pulling him towards her.

"_Where is my brother_?" she asked through gritted teeth.

…

* * *

They had told Camille that her brother was alive—but imprisoned. And he would continue to stay alive so as long as she cooperated. They had even taken her to visit him. Locked in an underground bunker and watching the Colbert Report on a flat-screen surrounded by armed guards. He appeared to be in relatively good spirits, though. He was a borderline indestructible mutant after all. They couldn't do much to hurt him. Nik had told her that he had foreseen all of this at the sibling's first meeting with Pierce, and that he was _still_ convinced that being on HYDRA's side was a good idea. He'd even foreseen the fight between Camille and those guards, he told her.

"_It's all very simple, Camille," Alexander Pierce had stated with a smug smile on his face, "If you cooperate, he lives. If you don't, he dies." _

That was the day where the world started to look black to Camille. Air looked black, sky looked black, and sun looked black. She realized how trapped she was, and the only way to get out was to cooperate. She was powerful, but she wasn't powerful enough to resist. And that's what was _so_ frustrating, she realized as she left the bunker and was chaperoned back to her room by three women guards armed with syringes. It was so frustrating that she was a lethal machine, but she wasn't lethal enough to make her own choices, only lethal enough to follow other people's commands.

She didn't leave her room for the rest of that day, instead choosing to pull the covers over her head like a scared child, and lay—wide eyed—in the fetal position.

Sometime during the early hours in the morning of the next day, she heard a heavy knock at her door.

_Now you have to get up, Camille_. She told herself as she dragged herself out of bed, threw an over-sized flannel shirt on over her black tank top and boy-shorts, and opened the door.

Of all the damn people.

"They told me that you can heal." he gasped, eyes dark. "I need your help," He mumbled before he collapsed towards Camille's chest.

She caught him, but barely, staggering under his weight, wrapping his metal arm around her shoulders and dragging him into her room.

"Jesus Christ," she whispered into his unconscious ear, "what've you been eating? Rocks?"

…

* * *

When he woke up, the Winter Soldier was sitting on the floor with his back propped up against a bed. The room was lit by a dim orange light, he was shirtless and caked with dried blood, and Camille was sitting crossed legged between his legs, wiping away the dried blood with a damp washcloth.

"Hey." He said, hissing in pain as she wiped over a particularly tender spot.

She was quiet for a moment and wiped a little more gently.

"Are you aware that you weigh a ton?" she asked softly. "And that you've lost a hell of a lot of blood?"

"I was in a fight. I was supposed to kill someone, okay? It happens." He grimaced as she moved on to another bullet wound.

"Naturally," Camille said, "Look, keep talking okay? What I'm about to do is going to hurt like a bitch, and talking helps most people get through it."

"There was this guy on a bridge. He called me something, or he said a name. I think he thought I was someone else."

She looked up at him. Her eyes were a dark shade of gray, he noticed. Something akin to how the sky looked when it was about to pour down rain.

"Oh yeah?" she asked, nonchalant.

"He called me Bucky."

* * *

**A/N: my pathetic attempts at cliffhangers never cease to amuse me. once again, thank you ALL for the favorites/reviews/etc. anyway, what do y'all think of Camille? I'd love to know!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: Trust Issues**

**Pairing: Bucky/OC**

**Rating: T-M**

**Summary: ****People say that the trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool. He trusted too little. She trusted too much. Turns out, both of them were doing the wrong thing**.

* * *

Chapter 5

_I see fire, blood in the breeze, and I hope that you remember me._

* * *

Camille Fremont was in a state of distress. After repeatedly kicking one of the large bulletproof windows in her room to no avail, she moved on to hurling random objects at it. Her remote, desk drawers, hell—she had even gone to the bathroom and ripped a towel rack off the wall and used as a battering ram in attempt in an attempt to bust herself out.

In the distance, all hell was breaking loose. Smoke and helicarriers dominated the air, sirens wailed on the ground, and civilians were scurrying around on the ground like chickens with their heads cut off.

And she refused to stay captive in HYDRA's headquarters like a damsel in distress. Throwing a backpack on, she sprinted out into the hallway.

The first place she went was to Adrian Jackson's room on the ninth floor. The door was locked, and she kicked it down with ease. He was gone, naturally, busy avoiding all the problems going on downtown, but he had left behind plenty of weapons in his wake.

Strapping loaded guns to her hip, slinging what appeared to be an AK-47 across her chest, strapping knives to her thigh, and even sticking a couple smoke bombs in her backpack, Camille once again made her way into the hall.

"Come on, come on, come _on_." She hissed, as she waited for the elevator to arrive. As she climbed inside, she checked the contents of her backpack that she had packed the night before—a spare set of clothes, toiletries, a wallet containing fake ID's and driver's licenses for Kentucky, New York, and California and black American Express card, a small case containing ten thousand dollars in cash, and of course- that God forsaken envelope that she had been given last night.

…

* * *

_For someone who had had their brain electrocuted only moments before, Bucky had been in a somewhat decent mood while he had allowed Camille to heal him._

_"Who the hell is Bucky?" Camille had asked, after he had told her about the man on the bridge._

_"Actually, it's a funny story." He'd replied._

_"Oh?" she had asked while ignoring his grunt of pain that stemmed from her healing one of his many bullet wounds. "How so?"_

_"This ancient motherfucker was demanding a mission report or something," he started, "I don't know his name, but I think that I let it slip that someone had called me Bucky. Now, everything's still really fucking blurry, but I'm pretty sure that that dried up, decrepit, ancient—"_

_"You were saying?" Camille interrupted, smoothing her hands over Bucky's chest. "That's broken," she had said, tapping the center of a very large bruise that dominated the area in-between his ribcage._

_"I'm pretty sure that the old bastard who was asking me all those questions said something, and then all I can really remember is my mouth tasting a lot like plastic and being in a helluva lot of pai—fuck." He cursed at the loud crack that emitted from his sternum._

_Camille had swallowed hard. "And then what?"_

_"And then, suddenly all of the pain stops, and it felt like my brain was liquid. The next thing I remember is that this insane guy comes up, and he's like, 'Electricity is so god damn barbaric, just let me wipe him.'"_

_There was a sinking feeling in Camille's stomach. "And this guy, what did he look like?"_

_"Like you."_

_"Are you saying that I look like a man?" she asked._

_"No," he laughed. "I mean that you two had the same features. Same hair and eye color. Same nose. Same mole right here," he tapped a spot on the underside of her jaw._

_With that, she had smiled._

_"That insane guy happens to be my older brother. And I have absolutely no idea what he meant when he said that he could wipe you."_

_"That's what I was getting to," Bucky said, "He didn't wipe my memories at all. I remember you. I remember where I am, what I'm doing here. I just don't remember where I came from, or my past, or that man on the bridge for that matter. I just know that I need to kill him."_

_"Nik can't even wipe memories," Camille trailed off, ignoring Bucky's statements about the man on the bridge. "He sees the future. That's not even close."_

_"He gave me this afterwards." He had said, pressing a grimy envelope into her hand. "He said you need to open this when you start to tell the truth. I guess if he's your brother, it must be pretty important."_

…

* * *

When she reached the lobby, Camille's heart was pounding. The elevator ride had taken longer than she expected, and when the doors opened, she was faced with a completely deserted lobby.

Sprinting through the lobby, leaping over armchairs, she burst through the front door in a shower of broken glass, being too impatient to wait for the revolving door. She smirked as she landed on the pavement. Clearly, they hadn't thought to make that glass bulletproof.

She ran down the sidewalk, shoving people out of her way and ignoring their curses and protests. In the distance, she saw a man in a dark car driving towards her.

"Hey!" she called, as she ran up the street towards him. "Hey! Let me borrow your car!"

He stopped in front of her, probably due to the fact that his only choices were to stop or run her over, and rolled down his driver's side window.

"Hell no, this Cadillac here cost me a small fortune, lady. Get your own." The driver was a man in his mid-fifties by the looks of it, sporting a fancy gold watch, expensive suit and designer sunglasses perched atop his balding head. By the looks of it, he had probably snapped and bought the car during his mid life crisis.

Camille ran up to the window. "Sir, I've got to get downtown." She pleaded, "I have friends _dying._"

"I said no way." He said again, obviously stubborn as a mule.

"I'm sorry," Camille said as she jammed the butt of her gun into his head, effectively knocking him out cold. "But I've got to do this."

She dragged him out of his fancy car by his shirt collar and left him sitting on the ground, slumped against a building. Climbing into the car, she started the engine and floored the accelerator, weaving in and out of traffic with the driving skills of not only a drunk driver, but probably someone who was texting and driving as well.

When the first bullet hit her car, she decided to continue on foot.

_Holy shit_, Camille thought as she sprinted in a back alley for cover after witnessing two agents wearing S.H.I.E.L.D uniforms turn their guns on each other, _I don't know who's on whose side anymore._

There was a chain fence separating the alley she was in from the next one. As she started to climb it, she heard voices.

"Well, well, well, look who we have here."

Camille whirled, still gripping the fence mid-climb, and saw three HYDRA men facing her. The metal links in the fence were cutting into her hands painfully, and she dropped to the ground.

"Look at this little alley cat, boys. This'll be a fu—"

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

Unfortunately, the man was cut off by Camille firing clean shots into him and his comrade's skulls. Abandoning the fence, Camille delicately stepped over their dead bodies and sprinted back into the street.

As she turned a corner heading towards the National Mall, Camille heard a whizzing sound coming towards her. Instinctively raising her backpack up to protect her head, she felt the impact of a knife being buried into the fabric. Whirling around, she saw another knife flying towards her face. She moved a nanosecond too late, and it managed to graze the skin right above her eyebrow, allowing a waterfall of blood to flow into her eye.

"Who the hell throws knives anymore?" she asked to no one in particular, frantically wiping blood off her face.

"Me!" someone shouted from behind her, as they slammed into the back of Camille's legs and tackled her to the ground, scraping the side of her face against concrete.

Camille tried to fight back, but surprisingly, her attacker was too quick. The S.H.I.E.L.D agent who had attacked her was a tiny and compact female. Blonde and _fast_. She had Camille pinned in a matter of seconds, and was gripping her by the throat.

Camille gripped the woman's wrist.

"Oh yeah?" the blonde sneered. "And what's that gonna do, _Agent Fremont?_"

"This," Camille gasped, and felt the woman's cells morph drastically, rendering the bones splintered, and the S.H.I.E.L.D woman's wrist, without a doubt, broken.

The woman howled in pain, and released Camille's throat. Camille then took the opportunity to reverse their position and held a gun to the other woman's head.

"Witch." The woman hissed, and then spat in Camille's face.

"You broke your wrist at some point in your life. I just restored your cells to how they were at that time." Camille pulled the trigger and grimaced as a warm and sticky spray of the woman's blood hit her in the face. "Bitch."

Camille pulled herself off of the woman's body and wiped her forehead again, noticing that the blood was starting to congeal. Tucking the gun back into its holster, she continued to jog down the pavement.

...

* * *

"_No_!" Camille shrieked, struggling against the man who was restraining her. The man with the grip like iron wrapped around her entire body and the breath that smelled like cigarettes and blood. He was stronger than her. Much, much stronger. There was absolutely no way that he was human. She sank her teeth into his forearm and struggled even harder, stomping on his feet and twisting in his arms. It did nothing to the man who held her captive. He forced her to the ground on her knees, arms wrenched behind her. And she hadn't even seen his face.

"You're a fucking _rat_," he hissed at her, "You're a fucking traitor and a god damn rat. Your life is worthless, bitch. And I'm going to make these last few minutes a living hell."

"_I don't know what you're talking about!" _she screamed, voice thick with desperation.

"_You know god damn well what I'm talking about_." He roared. _"Your life is worthless, Camille Fremont. Do you realize that? You are going to die right here, and no one gives a damn."_

The man's grip on her wrists tightened, and she could swear that she felt her bones beginning to break. Her eyes stung with what was certain to be the beginning of tears, as she thought about what was certainly about to be the end, when suddenly, a gunshot rang out and the man's grip on her slackened.

Rubbing her wrists, reassuring the fact that they were not broken as she had originally thought, Camille looked at the ground first. Only after realizing that she wasn't going to die did she dare to look up. A pair of black combat boots made their way into her line of vision. Then, black pants. Black shirt. Sunlight glaring off of the metal arm that was cradling an assault rifle. And he was dripping wet.

"You're an idiot, sweetheart."

* * *

**A/N: I promise, there's an actual plot to this story. It's just developing really slowly, lmao. Once again, thank you for all the favorites, follows, etc. Also, I've been meaning to give a shoutout to Jezebel DeTrazie, TheAnonymousSlut, MoonlightSonata, and jeps for the reviews. Also, if people actually know what the little italicized quotes at the beginning of the chapters are from, y'all are awesome. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Title: Trust Issues**

**Pairing: Bucky/OC**

**Rating: T/M**

**Summary: ****People say that the trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool. He trusted too little. She trusted too much. Turns out, both of them were doing the wrong thing.**

* * *

Chapter 6

_Fall with consequence, lose with eloquence._

* * *

"So… are you wearing eyeliner?" Camille's next question blurted out weakly before she could stop it, and she wanted to kick herself immediately afterwards.

"_No_, Camille, I am _not_ wearing eyeliner," He began, staring at her as if she had grown a second head. "Listen, I just saved your life and I don't even get a thank you?" he glowered at her incredulously, the lower half of his face concealed by a black mask.

For some reason, the sight of Bucky wearing a mask really set Camille on edge. It made him less human. More machine. More evil-Soviet assassin. All she saw were a pair of blue eyes that burned with emotion with no wry mouth to soften the hardness within them. And it _terrified_ her.

"Take it _off_." She said through gritted teeth, still slumped on the ground, staring at his feet, paralyzed by inane fear.

He offered Camille his human hand, and to her own surprise, she took it and found herself being pulled to her feet. When she was standing securely, he turned his back to her and looked over the edge of the rooftop the two of them had been standing on, silhouetted by the setting sun.

"If you wanted me to take my clothes off, you could've asked nicely." He said, voice slightly muffled by the mask he wore. "Just a suggestion for your future endeavors, _sweetheart_."

He had punctuated the word _sweetheart_ as if it was the punch-line to a joke.

"Take off the god damn mask and _look_ at me." Camille hissed, leaning heavily against the building's large chimney whilst rubbing her wrists, which were in fact _not_ broken unlike she had thought earlier.

Within an instant, Bucky had torn off the black fabric concealing the lower half of his face and closed the distance between Camille and him, pinning her to the brick wall of the chimney and remaining no more than a few inches from her bloodied face.

"Better?" he asked with a smirk, his blue eyes locked with her gray ones. He smelled like sweat and blood, and the dampness of his dark clothes were seeping into hers.

"Yes." She said faintly, noticing that the blue color of his eyes wasn't icy, as she had originally thought, but more around the fiery shade of blue that only occurred in when flames flared their hottest, and that the color of his eyes was only intensified by the dark smudges on the skin around them.

Bucky scanned her face, taking in the faint freckles across her nose, the cut above her right eyebrow which was sticky with half dried blood, the smoky gray of her eyes framed by sooty black lashes, and the curve of her lips that trembled like a child's when met by his metal thumb. He felt Camille's body stiffen when he ran his thumb across her lower lip, but then she slowly relaxed into his touch, swallowing heavily. He removed his thumb and leaned closer to her, cocking his head slightly as if she was some form of interesting specimen he wanted to get a closer look at.

Her breath hitched. "Easy there." She muttered, eyes focused on his lips. Camille knew where this was leading, and honestly? It didn't bother her one bit. As his lips curved into a smirk, she made one more horrifying realization. Something between the two of them was _changing_. Sure, their dynamic wasn't perfect but it potentially _worked_. Camille was all ice and cold, but Bucky, he was pure heat and fire. He terrified and intimidated her, and she confronted him stupidly, he teased her, but he never failed to somehow reassure her that it wasn't in his intentions to hurt her. And that terrified her. She wanted to slam her tongue in a car door for even thinking about him.

"Am I provoking you, sweetheart?" he asked with a dark smirk.

"Not at all," Camille breathed, standing on tiptoe, wanting him closer to her. "Don't you have people to kill? You should go do that now," she murmured, her words directly contrasting the action of her hands pulling him closer, trailing up over his broad shoulders and tangling in his wet hair. "You should definitely go and do that now."

Bucky spread his hands on the brick wall, just outside of Camille's hips. "Already taken care of," he dismissed, moving even closer. "Go here?" he asked, mouth trailing over her shoulder. "Or here?" his lips moved up her neck, over her jaw, gently sucking and nipping at her skin, until he covered her mouth with his in a hungry kiss. She responded immediately, surprising herself. He was warm, as she'd expected, the caress of his lips softer than she imagined. He tasted her tentatively with his tongue, hands gripping her hips, and Camille opened her mouth in a low moan.

Suddenly, he broke away.

"I had to do that," Bucky muttered, eyes unfocused. "At least once. Just to see what it felt like."

At that point, Camille was too stunned to formulate any type of logical thought.

…

* * *

The next day, Camille woke up alone in a cheap motel in the city, well rested- albeit furious. The second the fog of sleep cleared from her head, she became flooded with memories and leftover emotions from her and Bucky's little _rooftop fiasco_, as she kept referring to it in her head. It wasn't the kiss that had angered her, she decided, but more of what had happened _after_ the kiss.

_ "I had to do that," Bucky had muttered, eyes unfocused. "At least once. Just to see what it felt like." He took a deep breath, and backed away from her. "I'm leaving, Camille." He admitted. "I need to figure out what's going on. I need to figure out who that man on the bridge was. I need to remember." _

_"W-What?" she had stammered, "I can help, I can come with you..." _

_"You can't." he had said, grimly, staring at her with burning blue eyes._

_"W-why?" she kept stuttering like an idiot._

_"Because I don't trust you enough. I'm sorry."_

Camille pummeled the pillow again as his words came back to her for the fifth time that morning. _What a great start to the day_, she grumbled to herself, sitting up in bed and running her hands through her wavy dark hair.

…

* * *

She'd found herself back at the Bank of America building the next morning with a kill or be killed kind of mindset. Morbid, yes. Un-called for? Not at all. Camille left the stolen Cadillac that she'd recovered earlier that morning running outside the building. This would be a quick visit. Gun in her hand, she made her way to the lowest level of HYDRA's abandoned former headquarters—the bunker below the basement that served as the building's bomb shelter.

Bathed in greenish fluorescent lighting and surrounded by the cloying scent of damp earth, Camille faced the door to the only bunker. She took a deep breath, steeled her nerves and pushed down on the door handle. Unlocked. Swallowing hard, she let herself in. The gray cement walls and sparse room was completely empty. No tables. No chairs. No TV.

And especially, no sign of Nik Fremont, or his body.

A thousand emotions rushed through Camille. Anger, confusion, grief, hurt. She would rather him be laying on the floor in a pool of blood, than see a completely empty room.

It was over. It was pointless. The only reason she had to keep _living_ was completely gone. The only incentive she had to continue to _lie_ and deceive was gone.

Nik was gone, and she was nothing. She'd betrayed S.H.I.E.L.D for nothing. For no reason at all. She'd lied for no reason at all.

_She'd lied for no reason at all. _

The realization hit her like a ton of bricks.

…

* * *

Her fingers trembled as she ripped the envelope open.

_Camille—_

_You'll never understand how horrible it is to perpetually deceive someone you love. And by the time you're done reading this letter, you'll want to kill me. But for starters, I'm alive, and I'll be fine. Hell, I saw it. I even know exactly what you're doing right now. You're sitting on a shitty twin bed in a roach infested hovel, clenching your right fist and trying to control your breathing. Two days ago, you kissed an assassin on a rooftop. Yesterday, you tried to find me at HYDRA's headquarters—to no avail of course. Look. Ever since you were a kid, I'd made the promise to mom and dad to protect you. And I've tried so hard. You're my baby sister, and I love you more than anything, you know that. So, I hope you realize why I've had to lie to you for so long. Why I've had to deceive you. When you were ten years old and when I was thirteen, we were a part of the Weapon X project. We had metal bonded to our bones, we were experimented on, and we were turned into killer machines. They also injected us with a drug meant to boost our powers—only it did much more than that. It didn't quite work on us the way the scientists planned for it to. It was supposed to work perfectly on both of us—hell, it had been tested on our family. They did it to grammy and pops. They did it to mom and dad. It worked flawlessly on all of them. But not us. You probably don't remember at all, but the powers we both have now are not the ones we were born with. You were born with weak telekinetic powers, and I was born as a weak telepath. Actually, you definitely don't remember this at all, considering I've blocked all of this from your memory. But that's a different story for later in this letter. After injecting us both with the drug, our powers didn't become stronger. They turned completely different. You gained the ability to completely project your consciousness outside your body, and to use that in order to reach inside someone else and either heal them, or unheal them. I gained the ability to see glimpses of the future, which you know, but I also gained the ability to do something else. See, the drug also gave me the power to put my own thoughts into other people's heads, and to make them remember things that I created for them, and to also forget whatever I want them to. And that's what I've been doing to you for so long. That's why you don't remember ever being a telepath. That's why you have always trusted me so easily. And that's why you believe that the two of us had a younger brother. Cam, I'm being completely honest with you right now. Caspian? Our little brother who was murdered by S.H.I.E.L.D when he was twelve? He never existed, Cam. That was something I put into your head in order to get your support when joining HYDRA. That was something I'd invented, blackmailed by Alexander Pierce with your life on the line. I invented the memory of Caspian in order to make you hate S.H.I.E.L.D. You see, HYDRA has always wanted my power. They threatened me for six years, blackmailed me, and told me that if I didn't join up with them, terrible things would happen. Finally, I gave in. I said I would join, but on one condition. I would only join up with them if they didn't hurt you. And he told me—Pierce told me that there was no way you would be stupid enough to join if I didn't provide you with any form of incentive. Hence the false memories. And the lies. Camille, it was all to protect you, I hope you realize that. Your life was on the line because they wanted my power. And they have it now. So, technically, you're free. You could start over. Make a new name for yourself. You could go find that Winter Soldier character, and do God knows what with him. Hell, you will. I've seen it. However, the future is always changing. You could also risk your life some more and try to find me. I've seen that a couple times as well. _

_Hell, it won't be too hard,_

_Nik._

_P.S- You should consider trying Brooklyn._

* * *

**_A/N: _And the plot thickens. Poor excuse for a chapter, but at least you get some Bucky/Cam action. Long overdue. Please read and review.  
**


	7. Chapter 7

**Title: Trust Issues**

**Pairing: Bucky/OC**

**Rating: T-M**

**Summary: People say that the trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool. He trusted too little. She trusted too much. Turns out, both of them were doing the wrong thing.**

* * *

Chapter 7

_Yeah, I've been around, and I've seen it all._

* * *

"Fine then. I'll leave, you cold, insufferable, arrogant little _bitch_." The man lying in bed next to Camille threw the covers back and stood up, pulling a pair of jeans up over his dirty boxers and haphazardly buttoning a shirt over his naked torso.

The words were flung at Camille with such venom and hatred, it should've shocked her. A month or two ago, Camille would've jumped to her feet and replied with a scathing remark that would've shocked even the strongest of men into silence, but not now.

No, now, Camille couldn't even bring herself to respond to such a derogatory comment. Instead, she just lay in a haze, slumped against the headboard of the bed in a random hotel in the middle of New Jersey and waved her burning cigarette at the lean, dark haired man who exited the room as quickly as he should have as if it were on fire. Stop, drop, and roll. She'd known that his words were intended to hurt her, but over the past few weeks, Camille's heart had become impenetrable and numb to the world. Maybe it was her brother. Maybe it was Bucky. She didn't know. And, those words thrown at her didn't sting nearly as much as they should have. Plus, she didn't want to waste her time on someone she didn't even know the name of.

She was on her way to New York, gradually making her way up the East Coast, when she'd gotten distracted in New Jersey, had a bit too much to drink, and offered a stranger a place to stay for the night.

Her head throbbed. Camille wasn't the type to sleep around and get fucked up every night after things went wrong. She considered herself to be a fairly sensible and intelligent woman, and after wracking her psyche—several times—she honestly couldn't find a sensible nor intelligent excuse for her behavior. Sure, she had been lied to. By multiple people, but she hadn't lost anyone special. Or at least that was what she had been telling herself.

Dunking the half burned cigarette into the glass of water on the night table, Camille stood, groaning. Hell, she didn't even know why she was holding a cigarette in the first place. Camille never remembered taking up smoking. She walked into the grimy bathroom, squinting from the light streaming through the curtains, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. _What the fuck?_ She thought, taking in her reflection. Her long waves were starting to look like dreadlocks, makeup was smeared all over her face, with something that looked like half of a false eyelash stuck to her cheek, and her eyes were cloudy and bloodshot.

_Beautiful_, she thought bitterly, as she brushed her teeth, _absolutely stunning._

…

* * *

Camille had thought Washington DC was huge. That was before she had met Manhattan. She had never been _shocked_ before when faced with moving to a new location, and now she was definitely overwhelmed. She felt like a dog that had just been let out of a cage. Her hands were shaking. She was staring around like an idiot, standing completely still on a sidewalk. So many colors. So many noises. So many smells.

The impact from someone jostling her shoulder snapped her back into reality.

"Hey, move it, will you?" the person who had hit her said, abruptly, but not unkindly as they speed walked away. "Some of us have stuff to do!"

"Right, sorry," she muttered, pulling her light jacket tighter around her in order to shield herself from the bitter late-autumn wind. Camille started walking, scowling, and shivering slightly, shoving her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat. She was used to desert weather, for the love of everything holy in the universe. Hell, she was born in a city located right off the Mediterranean! Beaches! Sand! Nice, _warm_ climate! Cold weather did _not_ agree with her.

"You know, for someone born in Eastern Europe, you sure seem to hate the cold."

Camille's eyes widened, and she halted immediately.

"Please do the both of us a favor and don't cause a scene." He said.

Camille had been so distracted cursing the weather and storming down the sidewalk, she hadn't even noticed that a tall, broad, and blonde man had fallen into step beside her.

"_South_ Eastern." She growled, continuing to walk alongside him, but allowing herself to glare up at him. He seemed decent enough, but when random people showed up out of nowhere, knowing where she was born, she tended to be a little suspicious. The man was handsome- she'd give him that, however, she wasn't one to go for the pretty and blonde type.

"Steve Rogers." The man said, before she could ask his name, "We've met, actually."

"Steve Rogers as in Captain America? I don't…" she began, frowning.

"Remember?" he finished for her. "Yeah. I know." He gently grabbed her arm and steered her towards what looked like a diner, stuck in between a clothing store and an office. "Come on. I promised my friend I'd meet her here for breakfast."

"What the-"Camille said, resisting slightly.

"Come on." Steve repeated, this time with a friendly grin. "I'm buying."

…

* * *

"Wait," Camille began, staring both Steve and his redheaded friend- who he'd introduced as Natasha- in the eyes. Apparently, Camille had met them several times; however she had no memory of ever seeing them in person before in her life. "You're telling me that S.H.I.E.L.D knew that I'd betrayed them, and let me go willingly? And that Nick Fury isn't dead? And that S.H.I.E.L.D was keeping tabs on me the whole time? And that they knew about my brother?" She sank back into the red leather booth. "God," she groaned, head in her hands, "How long have I been in the dark?"

"The better part of your life, probably." Natasha said, matter-of-factly. "Shit, Cam, I called you the _day_ you joined up with HYDRA, and you didn't even recognize my voice. That's when we knew how strong your brother's control over you was."

Her stomach churned at the thought of Nik. Then, the queasy feeling was replaced with burning anger. "That was you?" Camille asked, wide eyed. "Jesus, I'm so stupid. I can't believe this ever happened."

"You're not stupid at all." Steve said, "Your entire mind was being toyed with. That's not stupidity."

Natasha nodded, taking a sip of hot tea. "You'll be able to distinguish which memories were real, and which ones aren't soon enough. When we heard that you were in to New York along with us, we had to come find you immediately. Just to prevent you from doing something rash."

Camille let out a short laugh. "Right. Like _I'd _ever do anything rash." She said sarcastically. "Anyway, now that most of the bullshit I've been through in my life is cleared up, why are _you_ here?"

Natasha looked at Steve and held her hands up with an expression that clearly stated, _I'm just along for the ride_.

"Camille," Steve began, "During your time with HYDRA, did you ever meet the man they called the Winter Soldier?"

Camille burst out laughing.

…

* * *

"Oh God!" she gasped, between fits of silent, hysterical laughter, ignoring Steve and Natasha's concerned looks. "_Did_ I?" she paused to wipe tears from her cheeks, "Of course I did. How could I not have?" she had stopped laughing now, and was merely shaking her head. "Oh God, _Bucky_. What an asshole." She muttered, more to herself than anyone.

"Bucky? So you know him?" Steve asked, with a look that seemed somewhere between desperate and hopeful. "And he's an asshole?" he asked, visibly confused.

"Well yeah," Camille began bitterly. "Last time I saw him, he kissed me on a rooftop and then told me that he was going to go find himself, and that he didn't trust me, or something completely ridiculous along those lines. Anyway, he left. And it doesn't really matter to me."

"Ridiculous?" Steve asked, frowning. "Do you even know who he is? Do you know his past?"

"He _kissed_ you?" Natasha asked, jaw dropping slightly.

"I read his file, if that counts." Camille said, "And yes, he kissed me. I'm not exactly _repulsive._ Why? Why does he even matter?"

"Because he's somewhere in the city. We just need to find him. And, he's my best friend." Steve said, looking Camille directly in the eye.

…

* * *

It turned out that Steve and Natasha were renting a two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn. They had invited Camille to stay back with them, until she got back on her feet, and when she had seen the clean interior and the bedroom that Steve and Natasha were sharing, she raised an eyebrow, but remained silent.

Collapsing on the bed in their small but clean guest room, Camille wracked her brain, trying to remember anything about Natasha and Steve. The only thing that came back was the feeling of familiarity when she thought of the two of them, but no memories. Nothing. Camille sighed deeply, and before she knew it, she was fast asleep.

…

* * *

_Four days later_

Damn them for making her get the groceries. No matter how many times Camille had protested against ever leaving the apartment due to the cold, Steve and Natasha had both insisted that habits like that led to agoraphobia, and due to that possibility, she had to be the one to get the groceries and do most of the shopping.

_ Oh well_, Camille thought, as she made her way down a crowded sidewalk, head down, and scarf wrapped around the lower portion of her face, protecting her from the cold wind, _I guess I can't mooch off of those two forever._

The nearest Whole Foods was only a few blocks away, and even though the cold made her cringe, Camille was enjoying the walk due to the fact that she was still incapable of hailing a taxi. She always liked people watching, and hell, New York had plenty of interesting people. Her eyes scanned a group of teenage girls who were probably around sixteen—but trying to pass for twenty in their short skirts, tight tops and high heels in the freezing cold weather. Camille rolled her eyes, and couldn't help but stare as a woman in a long mink coat slinked into her line of sight, flanked by three men in expensive suits. _Must be nice_, Camille thought sarcastically.

Camille looked up, allowing her to see a few feet into the distance, and saw a tall man in a dark coat with broad shoulders and wavy brown hair pulled into a small ponytail. Her eyes narrowed. _No way_, she thought. _No fucking way_. The man in the distance turned slightly to the left, and she caught a glimpse of a strong jawline lightly covered with day old scruff. _Oh, no fucking way_, she thought again, speeding up her pace, shoving aside fragile human bodies and ignoring the sounds of protest that emitted from them. Camille caught a glimpse of the man's face again. One hundred percent accuracy. It was _him_.

Pulling her scarf off her face, Camille lunged forward; grabbing the man's left shoulder, feeling the hard metal beneath his coat as she pulled him around to face her, his blue eyes locking with her gray ones and widening in horror.

"Found you, Bucky." She said with a dark smirk.

* * *

**A/N: Woooooooo. Chapter Seh-vuhn. I also definitely changed the summary to this story because I'm pretty selfish and I want more people to read it and hopefully, an interesting summary will give me that. Please read and review! I love, love, LOVE, reviews! they're the reason I want to keep writing this.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Title: Trust Issues**

**Pairing: Bucky/OC**

**Rating: T-M**

**Summary: you already know (why did i even make it an option for me to add the summary before every chapter, it's literally the biggest pain in the ass).**

* * *

Chapter 8

_Waitin', watching the clock, it's four o'clock, it's got to stop._

* * *

"_Mama?" the little girl asked, silhouetted in the doorway of her mother's bedroom, clutching her blanket in her left hand and rubbing her gray eyes with her left, "Mama, what's going on? Why are all these men in our house?"_

_ "Oh, Cam, sweetie, don't worry. Your daddy and his friends are just having an argument, just try to go back to sleep, honey. Don't wake your brother up now; you know how cranky he can get." The middle aged woman pressed the girl to her chest in a hug, filling the little girl's nose with the scent of flowery freesia perfume, and the little girl's heart with a familiar, warm feeling.. The older woman let go of the little girl, and smiled at her. However, it was a tight, worried smile that never seemed to reach her dark eyes. _

_ "Go along now, darling. I'll see you and Nik in the morning. Sweet dreams, sweetie."_

_ The little girl tiptoed past the kitchen, pressing an ear- but not daring to peek- into the door that was left slightly ajar, and heard her father's voice—_

_ "You will never get your hands on either of them." Cansrel seemed to be protesting. "They are my children. Not your tools. And they mean the world to me."_

_ A voice replied, masculine, smooth as silk, but sharp as a razor blade. The sound sent shivers down the little girl's spine._

_ "Oh, Cansrel, you are certainly stubborn. And it's certainly such a shame that you'll never live to witness your children betray you and your legacy." The man finished with a light chuckle._

_ The girl's father replied, "This family is loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D. Our values are instilled in them, they may be young but they are not easily sway—" _

_ "Oh, spare me the tales of the precociousness of your children," the other man spat, "This plan has been in the works since before their births. It's just a matter of time before your young son realizes his full potential and uses it to his advanta—"the man cut off sharply._

_ The little girl had leaned a little bit too heavily on the oak kitchen door, causing it to creak open, and the man to stop speaking. She looked up sheepishly and saw her father tied to a chair in the center of the room, surrounded by men dressed in black carrying guns, and another man—a cruelly beautiful man dressed in tight black, whose looks sent an icy vein of fear into the girl's heart—standing in front of her father, slightly turned towards the door, with his cold, wolfen eyes glaring into the little girl's wide, gray ones._

_ He turned around completely, striding towards the door, a flex of muscles gliding their way down his body like a flick in a rope with each step, until he was no more than six inches in front of the little girl's face. She was paralyzed in fear by his eyes- his deep black eyes shimmering with violet highlights. The man placed a hand on the door and closed it—surprisingly gently—in the little girl's face. _

_ There was garbled speech from behind the closed door—something sounding akin to pleading, voices raising in volume into a wild crescendo—when suddenly, a deafening boom rang out, and all was quiet. The next words would permanently etch themselves into the little girl's memory._

_ "What a waste."_

Camille jolted upright in bed, hyperventilating, hands clutching the sheets in a death grip. The memories quickly came in flashes. The little girl in the dream was _her. _Camille remembered the sound of thunder, loud voices, a startling gunshot, and the sound of someone crying—maybe herself. Unfortunately for her, the memories also seemed to be losing their clarity just as quickly as they came, turning themselves into a fuzzy collection of images.

Camille glanced at the alarm clock. Six thirty-seven in the morning, and the apartment was silent. Groaning, she rolled over and punched her pillows, attempting to seize the last few hours of sleep that she had remaining before the dreaded appointment with an ex-S.H.I.E.L.D scientist/therapist that specialized with patients who had lost their memory. After Camille had angrily dragged Bucky back to their apartment and after Steve and Bucky had awkwardly half-rekindled their past bromance, Steve and Natasha had painstakingly arranged for both Camille and Bucky to meet with a woman who apparently could aid them with regaining Bucky's memory, and distinguishing which of Camille's memories were fake.  
And Camille was dreading it.

…

* * *

Shortly after 10 A.M, Camille woke and immediately stumbled into the adjoined kitchen and living room later that morning, she was in for a surprise. The therapist was already there, and the only other person in the room was Bucky, lounging on the couch and looking extremely alert, clean and well rested for someone who had just spent the night on a couch. The therapist on the other hand, was a woman who while she couldn't be older than thirty—looked thin as a toothpick, perched on the edge of an armchair and wearing a coral sweater set and clutching a large notebook to her chest. Both individuals were in strict contrast to Camille who had _literally_ rolled out of bed in her sweats and oversized flannel, neglected to tame her hair, and looked like she couldn't _try_ to give less of a_ shit_ about this 'therapy' session.

"Good morning!" the woman called from the living room.

Camille waved in her direction and headed further into the kitchen, grabbing a clean glass from the dishwasher and filled it with tap water. Then, she opened several cabinets until she found a bright yellow pill bottle, and shook a tablet into her hand. After downing the small white pill and the entire bottle of water, Camille walked into the living room area and flopped down on the last remaining armchair next to Bucky and across from the woman.

"Alrighty," Camille began, not wanting to spend any time in the same room as Bucky than absolutely necessary, "Can we get this over with, please?"

The woman smiled, opening her notebook and taking out a pen. "My name is Doctor Elizabeth Connors, but you can call me Elizabeth, or Dr. Connors if you would like. I'm sure you both have been briefed as to why I am here, and I am going to start by asking you two both a few simple questions about yourselves in order to test your memories and to get to know each other."

Camille sighed through her nostrils, noticing the woman's flaxen hair, fair skin and how her eyes seemed to gloss over Camille and linger on Bucky for a second longer than normal.

"Okay, let's begin," Dr. Connors said, with the same smile plastered on her face. "What are your _full _names?"

"Camille Milena Fremont, next." Camille replied impassively, staring at her nails.

"James Buchanan Barnes—I think. Steve calls me Bucky though. So does she." Bucky jerked his head towards Camille.

"May I call you Bucky?" Dr. Connors asked.

"No." he replied.

"But you let Steve and Camille call you Bucky." She replied, smile faltering.

"They never asked."

"Alright then, James. But who are _they_?" Dr. Connors asked again.

"I don't know." he said, looking at Dr. Connors as if she was an idiot.

Dr. Connors paused to scribble something in her notebook. Camille imagined her to be writing something about Bucky—something probably along the lines of, _patient appears to be a hostile amnesiac_.

"Okay, I think it's time for our next question. What do you two think? James? Camille? Any thoughts?"

Silence from the unfriendly pair.

"Where were you born?"

This time, it was Bucky who answered first. "Brooklyn. I learned that when I read about myself in a museum. But I'm sure that you already know that."

"Yes, yes," Dr. Connors mused as she scribbled in her notebook again. "Your friend Steve mentioned that you made a trip to the Smithsonian and found some information about yourself in a Captain America exhibit. How did that make you feel?"

"Peachy." He replied, folding his arms over his chest.

"And Camille, where were _you _born?"

"Bulgaria." She replied shortly.

"Ah, what city? Sofia?" Dr. Connors asked, looking at Camille, but writing in her notebook at the same time.

"_No_," Camille replied bitterly. "Varna."

The woman's smile faltered even further. Camille swore she saw Dr. Connors' eye twitch.

"Okay," Dr. Connors trailed off, scribbling even harder into her notebook, "When was the last time you two ate?"

"I just had an aspirin tablet for breakfast." Camille replied sardonically, placing her feet on the coffee table and narrowing her eyes at Dr. Connors, determined to do whatever she could to make it clear that Camille had zero interest in therapy.

"Earlier this morning I had some cereal," Bucky replied, mock-thoughtfully, seeming to be about as eager as Camille to be in therapy. "Had little marshmallows in it. Never had it before. When you're a bloodthirsty assassin, you don't have much time for sugary cereal."

"If the two of you are not going to take this seriously—"the doctor began.

"Of _course_ we aren't going to take it seriously," began Bucky, surprising Camille. "We're not _crazy_, and you don't have to treat us like _children_. We're perfectly capable of looking after ourselves and keeping ourselves healthy and fed, and we don't need some woman breathing down our necks and asking us questions that she already knows the answers to."

…

* * *

"So how'd it go?" Natasha drawled, taking a sip of her latte.

After Dr. Connors had left in a flustered hurry, promising to see both Camille and Bucky every Wednesday at 10 a.m, Natasha and Steve had conveniently walked through the front door, carrying bags from Whole Foods, with Natasha talking animatedly about the health benefits of quinoa versus flax seed.

Upon seeing the disgruntled look on both Camille and Bucky's face, Steve and Natasha had stopped their discussion and upon Steve literally dragging Bucky out of the apartment to see what their favorite bar from the '40's had been turned into, Natasha had turned to Camille and said promptly,

_"Get your ass showered, we're getting Starbucks."_

Thirty minutes later, Natasha and Camille were seated in the back corner of the closest Starbucks and were huddled over their respective lattes and mochas.

"Horribly," Camille answered, as she took a sip of coffee. "She was awful, basically a robot."

Natasha laughed and replied, "Yeah, not many people at S.H.I.E.L.D liked Elizabeth Connors."

"Gee, I wonder why." Camille rolled her eyes. "So, I had a dream last night."

Natasha frowned, "Oh yeah? What of?"

"My dad's death." Camille answered, "I've never dreamt of it before. Like, I remember his death, but it's fuzzy, probably thanks to Nik. The dream on the other hand was crystal clear."

Natasha's eyes widened ever so slightly and she replied, "Maybe you get memories back through your dreams. Do you remember anything else?"

"Yeah," Camille answered, "I remember visiting my dead-younger-brother-who-never-actually-existed's grave. Except, I could tell that it wasn't a real memory, you know? Like, I didn't remember ever having a birthday party for him, or seeing him interact with the rest of my family. All I remember when I think of him is seeing a gravestone with his name on it."

"In that case, I feel like this is a good time to hand this over to you. At least you can kind of distinguish between what's real and what's not." Natasha reached inside her bag, pulled out a thick file folder, and handed it across the table to Camille. "It's your file. I called in some favors from ex-S.H.I.E.L.D Intel. Don't open this now, but maybe there's something inside of here that could help you."

…

* * *

The first thing that Camille saw when she opened her file was a very unflattering picture of herself that had apparently been taken as she was pumping gas in the middle of nowhere. Cringing, she noticed that the picture was paper clipped to a document that listed her name (Fremont, Camille, M.), birth date (August 7th, 1986), hair color (BRN.), eye color (GRY.), blah, blah, blah…

The next document was a medical record of some sort, assuring Camille that she was up to date on all of her required injections, did not have any form of terminal disease, yada, yada, yada…

_ Seriously?_ Camille thought as she flipped through more useless information in her file. She was about to give up all hope, when she came across something that was actually moderately interesting.

_**Weapon X Trials in the Contemporary Era**_

_**Name**_**: Camille M. Fremont/Trial No. 59**

_**Age of Experimentation**_**: 14 y/o**

_**Abilities**_**: Trial No. 59 was gifted with telekinetic abilities since birth, however, after unwilling experimentation; Trial 59 lost all telekinetic ability and developed abilities similar to psychic surgery. Trial No. 59 received the Weapon X injection & the bonding of adamantium to Trial 59's skeleton. Immediately after experimentation, Trial No. 59 had most conscious memories blocked by the psychic ability of Trial 59's brother, Trial No. 47. Blocking of memories will continue until adulthood. Due to experimentation on Trial No. 59's body, Trial 59 can no longer bear children, and continues to remain impenetrable to certain common diseases****.**

_**Status: **_**The current status of Trial No. 59 is **_**UNKNOWN**_**.**

Camille threw the file down onto her bed, sprinted down the hall into the bathroom, and violently vomited into the toilet.

* * *

**A/N: a chapter in which Cam and Bucky enjoy some lovely therapy with a lovely lady who is going to make a lovely reappearance. Also, I'm trying to like, ease Camille's past/memories into the story without like, distracting from the plot (because there is one, I promise...) anyway, please read and review, because reviews are inspiration! **


	9. Chapter 9

**THE NEXT CHAPTER.**

**IT'S COMING.**

**I HAVE NOT ABANDONED THIS, BUT YA GIRL IS JUST REALLY FUCKING BUSY WITH LIFE/COLLEGE SHIT/FAMILY STUFF SO PLS PLS PLS BE PATIENT!**

**I LOVE EVERYONE WHO'S REVIEWED/READ/FOLLOWED. THANK YOU SO MUCH.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Story: Trust Issues**

**Pairing: Bucky/OC**

**Rating: T/M**

**Summary: People say that the trust of the innocent is the liar's most useful tool. He trusted too little. She trusted too much. Turns out, both of them were doing the wrong thing.**

* * *

Chapter 9

_Now I've got you in my space, I won't let go of you._

The apartment was peacefully quiet. Steve and Natasha had gone out somewhere, probably to dinner, Camille was sulking in the guest room, and Bucky was lying on the couch in guise of sleep, trying to process previous events of the day.

Even though he had become slightly more acquainted with the modern world, Bucky still found certain things to be just plain _odd._ For example, when Steve had dragged Bucky out of the apartment in order to take him to where their favorite bar used to stand, the two men found themselves standing in front of a large venue that boasted a neon sign portraying the image of a nude woman lying seductively inside of a large martini glass.

Unfortunately, the place was closed.

Bucky didn't remember ever going to any bars with Steve. Hell, the only thing that he _really_ remembered about Steve was that they used to be best friends and that they had fought with each other, apparently to what was the end of the line.

And that was so _strange _to him. Perhaps it was due to the fact that he had been brainwashed into becoming a ruthless assassin for seventy years, but feelings of loyalty for personal reasons were _odd_ to Bucky. They were confusing. He had been loyal to HYDRA, but that was different to him. HYDRA was an organization, and it was either that he was loyal to them, or he died. But the loyalty that he apparently had towards Steve was different.

He should've known better than to attempt to remember his past before he went to sleep.

Bucky tossed and turned fitfully in attempt to get comfortable, almost falling off of the couch that in reality was quite too small for him. However, he didn't dare ask Camille if he could have the guest room.

Oh God, _Camille_.

Bucky's eyes snapped open and he groaned out loud in exasperation. The icy brunette hadn't spoken one word to him since she had plucked him off of the streets and quite literally dragged him back to Steve and Natasha's apartment. Hell, the only time Camille had actually acknowledged him was to shoot him an evil glare when he _dared_ to reach for the coffee pot at the same time as she did. He understood why she was angry, he realized that. But he didn't anticipate _how_ angry.

In the distance, a toilet flushed, and Bucky heard footsteps coming down the hallway into the kitchen. The lights flicked on and the fridge opened.

"Steve?" Bucky asked hopefully, thinking that maybe Steve and Natasha had come home.

"_No_." A hoarse female voice replied, "They're still out."

Camille had retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge and taken a seat on top of the counter. She looked haggard and sweaty with tendrils of hair sticking to her skin, and her complexion looked unusually waxy and pale.

"What's going on?" Bucky asked before he could stop himself. His words seemed to hang in empty space before she answered.

"I was just vomiting my innards out in the bathroom," she snapped, "Sorry that I didn't invite you."

He stood up from the couch and walked into the kitchen, leaning against the counter across from her and ignoring her hostility. "You okay?" he asked tentatively.

Bucky watched her then. She didn't look at him, only studied the plastic water bottle she was holding. Her white knuckled hand further clenched around it, and her entire body tensed. He braced himself for the scathing remark that would probably follow.

There was no scathing remark.

"I can't have kids." Camille replied quietly. Her shoulders sank. "I found this like, file about me. And I didn't know."

"That's… wow. I'm sorry. I'm really sorry." He replied, unsure of what to say, unsure of whether to console her or back away very slowly.

There was silence between the two. They both remained still and unmoving as statues, avoiding each other's eye contact.

"I mean, it's not like I even wanted kids," Camille broke the silence, clenching her fists, "I just didn't know that I couldn't have any…"

"I'm sorry; it must be hard for you." Bucky replied, still unsure of what to do. Camille's body language was extremely aggressive, but the words coming out of her mouth were blasé and hollow.

"Obviously no one saw it fit to inform me of the fact that I can't have any _fucking_ children." Her voice rose shrilly. "I mean, I _can't_ have kids_. I_ didn't know I can't have kids, did you know that I can't have kids, because wow, oh, I sure didn't, I mean, it's not like I was ever _informed_." She paused to take a breath, "Whatever." She managed, sounding like an upset teenager.

"So let me get this straight," he began wearily, "You're upset that you can't have kids, but you didn't want any anyways?" He frowned at her, "I feel bad but—"

"No," she cut him off, "I'm pissed off because I'm finding out things about myself that I don't even know."

Bucky stared at her for a solid three minutes, feeling a slight edge of irritation becoming prevalent. "You're serious?" he asked flatly.

"Well… yeah." Camille said, narrowing her eyes.

"And how do you think I've been feeling lately?"

He turned on his heel and returned to his place on the couch, leaving Camille sitting dumbfounded on the kitchen counter.

* * *

**A/N: I'm sorry, I'm the worst. This is a really poor excuse for an update, especially after how long I've been gone. Oh my God, I'm sorry. Read and Review, I guess...**


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